


don't you see it's wrong, can't you get it right?

by allisonmartined



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Immortality, Slight Arthur/Merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 09:30:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allisonmartined/pseuds/allisonmartined
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wonders if this is what magic has cursed him with, took his soul and replaced it with hollow space, just to spite him, just to say that it always wins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't you see it's wrong, can't you get it right?

**Author's Note:**

> for [jenny](http://mcmorgans.tumblr.com/) who is my muse, inspired by [satellite heart](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kV6xC6N4HPs) by anya marina.

She says it like forgiveness, like a whimper in the dark.  His fingers curl, nails biting into skin, _this isn't right_.  

 

They've always been this way, all collision and the spaces inbetween.

 

His eyes burn, his skin feels too tight. She's turned away from him, clutching the doornob, bright and copper between her fingers.

 

"This was never going to be enough."  He feels like his heart is collapsing, like there's nothing but space inside of his chest.

 

He thinks there's a silent _I'm sorry_ , but she doesn't say it, so he refuses to acknowledge it, this time.

 

The door clicks and she's gone, and the room feels empty, barren and his bones ache.  For the first time in ages, he can feel time echo in his brain.

 

 

 

 

It's not the first time he's lived without her.  He's lived lifetimes without her laugh and her hair and her too deep eyes.  He can do this, there's no question.  But, his will is waning.  He's old, too old now.  The glimmer of magic is weak in this timeline and he is too, he can feel himself growing older, the wrinkles settling in his skin.  

 

He picks up hobbies, like they can replace the ache she's left. Even though there's so much more he's missing than just her, it's history and connection and belief.  And it all crumbled when she left.  With the click of a door.

 

He's in a shop, and he picks up a bright red paint tube with "Camelot" scribbled on the side and it make him cough out a laugh, his heart wheezing around it.  He starts to paint.

 

He paints years and memories and all the things that died in ashes.  He paints time and sorrow and the way the wind curls around skin.  He paints until his hands are covered in tempera, and it all hurts just a little less.

 

 

He starts to teach an art class accidentally.  His students are a little rugged, all sharp edges and warmer contents. He likes them that way, the bitterness around the kindness.  He remembers that like a slow ache.  There's a boy, a man maybe, blonde and cocky, but talented, who reminds him of a different time, and a girl with brown curls and a whimsical laugh that soothes him.

He kisses him, once, just for a moment, just to dull the ache.  And he smiles, almost shyly, "I knew I was your favorite," he says with a chuckle.  And that's all it is.  He threads fingers through short blonde hair and lets himself think of another cocky boy with sunshine hair.  He allows it for himself for a moment, just a moment.  

The boy starts dating the girl with the soft, soft curls and it feels like history repeating, it feels right somehow.  The low ache slots itself into his chest, and his breath strains around it.  He misses Morgana more than he can manage then.  

 

 

He paints until the sharp pain of it receeds and it's just paint and canvas and static.  

 

 

 

 

He thinks this is what time, what history, is; a constant cycle of mistakes catching up to you.  He wonders if he's going mad, if she was always the only thing that kept him together, for better or for worse.  He wonders if this is what magic has cursed him with, took his soul and replaced it with hollow space, just to spite him, just to say that it always wins.   

 

 

 

 

 A girl approaches him after one of his classes, eyes bright and kind, and he wonders if he traced her face if he could feel Freya in the edges of it.  He's always seeing ghosts.  He buys her coffee, watches as her skin crinkles around her eyes, the way her hands curve around her mug, the way she bites her lip and laughs, like she's trying to hold it in.  They talk about art and classes and her career, but he's not really listening, doesn't really know what he's saying.  All he can see is the ghost behind her eyes.

 

 

They don't date, he never dates, not since _her_.   _Never anyone but her._  And the knowledge is like a pain deep in his bones.  He misses her everyday, instinctively.  He never sees her ghost.

 

 

 

Not-Freya has her hands twisted in his hair, her body arched against his, and all he can think of is black hair and too deep eyes, long eyelashes and a throaty laugh. He swallows the _Morgana_ on his tongue.  He dreams of her that night.  Her hand trailing up his ribs, whispering spells into his skin.  It's a memory, he thinks.  He can still feel the moment in his skin, the way her skin felt, the way her voice muffled against him, the tickle of her hair.  He wakes with a start, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes.  He muffles a scream into his pillow.  It feels like fire and ash in his throat.

 

 

 

 _It has to get better_ , he tells himself.  He's always been so good at lying to himself, at letting the lie curl itself around him, until all he _is_ is the lie.  He's drowning, slowly, losing air a breath at a time, losing the weight of his soul.  But, he lies.  Because he _needs_ to.  

 

 

+

 

 

"Is this who we are, an endless cycle of lies and pain and death?"  She wraps her fingers around his wrist, tight, like she's proving he's real.  Not a ghost.

"Maybe," he's so tired of lying. To her, to himself.  She lets out a breath.  "Destiny and Doom," he mutters.

"Yeah," she whispers into his shoulder, her skin skin wet and hot.  She traces over the dried paint that covers his arms, red and blue and green.

 

 


End file.
